


moonshine (the edges of your smile)

by sapphicscribe



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Ice Skating, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Artist Victor Nikiforov, Ballet Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Ballet Dancer Victor Nikiforov, Ballet Dancer Yuri Plisetsky, Christophe Giacometti is a Good Friend, Hurt Victor Nikiforov, I'm Bad At Tagging, Insecure Katsuki Yuuri, M/M, Poetry, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, Wingman Phichit Chulanont
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 04:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicscribe/pseuds/sapphicscribe
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki finds a painting of himself in a run-down coffee shop.-Yuuri is a twenty three year old ballet danseur, ready to retire, despite years of practice and honing his skills.Victor Nikiforov, an ex-danseur for the Bolshoi Ballet, was forced into retirement. Maybe he can change that.Their fates intertwine as they realize they each inspire each other more than either knew they could.





	moonshine (the edges of your smile)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first fanfiction, so it should be interesting. Nothing too much other than a bit of language and mentions of body insecurity.
> 
> This should be about 5 chapters, less than 10k words
> 
> My tumblr is youdontsayy, but I'm pretty new there too.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Maybe that was my mistake: thinking every love was different, a fruit inside its own clear mason jar- my love, her love, his, all separate as the trees they came from.”

Annie Kim, Eros the Contagion

-

Yuuri is at a coffee shop when he finds paintings of himself on the hasty stuck-on paisley wallpaper. It’s far from an upscale joint; he’d have doubts about the cleanliness if it weren’t for the health inspector’s warrant displayed proudly on the counter as if taunting them to inquire. Judging by the looks of the angry blond teenager at the front counter, Yuuri wasn’t going to.

The first painting is displayed right above his table, muted, pastel colors not suited to the extravaganza of the wallpaper, nor the wilted flowers, nor the dust between the table and floor. It belongs in an art museum, a stunning portrait of a danseur mid-flight. Corps de ballet for sure, surrounded by men of the same simple costume. His black hair is slicked back, arms towards the sky, the spotlight in his eyes as if reaching for something greater. Yuuri could recognize this from anywhere.

One of his last sequences in Giselle, the show he had performed two weeks ago.

The man has black hair, the same build as Yuuri, the same features drawn in painstaking detail, from the flush of his cheeks to the ends of his slicked-back hair, nearly dripping with sweat, and eyes bright but squinting in the bright glare.

There is no way this man is not him.

He’s one of two Asian men in the ABT, the other being his best friend Phichit Chualnont. Yuuri is disappointed; he’s 23 and has yet to acquire a major role in the productions of pretty much anything. From the time he fucked up (severely) at an international event at the Royal Opera Theatre, his confidence has dropped to the negative end of the scale.

“Oi, pig!,” a voice yells from across the room, and Yuuri can see it is coming from the angry blond at the counter. Was he the one who painted this? Yuuri sinks in disappointment. A pig? He had severed his relations with the American Ballet Theatre two weeks ago, and his anxiety had gotten the better of him. He could never stay with Minako-sensei; she would never forgive him. Neither would his parents and Mari back in Japan, who had given everything to see him succeed in the world of ballet, only to watch him ultimately fail.

He had let himself go over the last two weeks, the death of his beloved dog Vicchan tipping him over the edge. On top of it all, Phichit had left to Thailand to visit his family over the summer, leaving Yuuri alone to his thoughts. His days had been spent binge-eating and stressing over the e-mail he was to write to his parents, telling them he was a failure, that he had dropped ballet. A pig. This creamer-heavy coffee wasn’t doing wonders for his weight either.

“Oi! Are you listening to me?” the voice barked, in a slight Russian accent. Yuuri’s head shot up, tears welling in his eyes. The teen must have noticed his reaction, as his tone softened. “Victor wants to see you.”

“Victor?,” Yuuri inquires, quieting his thoughts. It could never be that Victor.

“Yes, it’s just Victor. He honestly has a bit of a complex, if you ask me, for some idiot geezer trying to run a second-hand coffee shop that closed ages ago,” the blond returns, edge returning in his voice, as if reading Yuuri’s thoughts when his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “The door’s right in that way, You’d better go right in before Victor explodes. I told him you were here. Can you believe he didn’t believe me? He owes me 10 bucks.” 

Yuuri, shocked by the odd display, ushers himself through a bright red door next to the counter. It creaks as he pushes it open, revealing a room, quite literally, covered in paint and smelling like fresh drywall and rotting paint.

Suddenly, a blur of reddish-brown pounces on him, knocking him to the floor. He blinks under the glare of the fluorescent ceiling lights for a few seconds, before a ball of fluff appears in his line of vision, licking all across his face. Instinctively, he sits up before taking it in his lap. “Vicchan?” he wonders out loud. Maybe he’s dead. What if Heaven is real?  _ No, this is too big to be Vicchan. _ He was a toy poodle, and this is obviously-

“It seems Makka has taken a bit of a liking to you,” comes a heavy Russian accent from a few feet away, heavier and deeper than that of the boy at the counter. Yuuri thinks he knows this voice, maybe it’s his subconscious trying to tell him something, maybe this was a bad idea.

A sharp, angular face with a light mop of silver - no -  _ platinum _ hair looms over him, trying to kneel down, his heart-shaped smile flickering slightly in what appears to be pain. It’s  _ this _ Victor. Yuuri would know him from anywhere; that heart-shaped smile and silver hair, and long, slender, graceful body. “You-you’re Victor Nikiforov!”

The Bolshoi ballerino, the living legend stands in front of him, leaning heavily on a cane. “And you’re Yuuri Katsuki. I really haven’t heard enough about you, you know?” He limps over to a picture of Yuuri painted on a canvas, only his face this time, and Yuuri can see all of his imperfections- his chubby, childish cheeks, unfocused, squinting eyes in the spotlight, sweat dripping from his hair.

“You painted this?”

“I did indeed. Ever since this-” He gestures to his left knee. “-I’ve had a bit of free time on my hands. Physio says I can never go back to dancing, so I guess I need some other hobbies.”

“But why me?” Yuuri asks, clearly confused. “I just quit, I might need to head back to Japan and find a job.”

“Yuuuuuri,” Victor groans. “Your are a  _ danseur _ . I saw  _ Giselle _ , and everything about your performance was incredible.” Yuuri knows it was genuine, but the voice in the back of his mind continued to whisper.  _ What if this is all some sort of cruel joke? Victor can’t see you like this. Victor is strong and beautiful and-  _ “You have such an artistry, the way the music flows through you, you just need to be confident.”  _ -and everything you’re not and will never be. _

It physically hurts Yuuri to see his idol like this, the man Yuuri had dreamt of sharing a stage with, reduced to his injury and loneliness, so desperate for the company of another dancer that  _ Yuuri _ can bring him entertainment. A tear drips down his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can go on stage again.”

“I understand. If you’re in between jobs though, you can always work here. My suggestion is always open; I could help mentor you, and in return you could help me fix this place up, hopefully draw a few customers. I’m sure you’ve met the boy outside, that angry blond?” Yuuri nods, trying to hold in . “His name is Yuri, just like you, but we call him Yurio. He was a talented hopeful for the Bolshoi, but his grandfather died, and Yakov Feltsman took him in.”

“You mean the director of the New York Ballet Theatre?”  _ Of course _ it was his rival theatre. But then again, Yuuri’s technically unemployed.

“Yeah, Yakov’s trying to get some Russian-style productions into the states. He invited me over here after I shattered my knee, to hopefully mentor some students. But it hurts, every time I look at them it’s like watching a reflection of myself that could never come to be.”

“Why mentor me? I’m nothing special.”

“You have a musicality inside of you Yuuri. Something that sets you apart. Besides, it’s been nearly a year since I was forced out of retirement, although twenty eight isn’t exactly retiring young.”

“I’ll think about it. The job offer and the mentorship. The ABT didn’t exacly pay me to quit.” Both men give a dry chuckle. “Ballet isn’t exactly a stable income. But in all seriousness, why a coffee shop of all things?”

“Do you know Chris Giacometti, the composer?” Judging by the confused expression on Yuuri’s face, he continues. “He did ‘La Parfum de Fleurs’ for American Contemporary last year.”   
  


“My roommate’s friend, Guang Hong Ji, was a lead in that!”   
  


“I think I’ve heard of him. But he used to own this place before he made it big, used this room right here as his music room. When he moved over to LA, he gave this to me.” Victor jingles the keys in his pocket for emphasis, before quickly tearing a piece of paper out of his scrap notebook and scribbling on it. He hands the small slip to Yuuri. “Here’s my number, just in case you want to follow up on anything.”

The sudden action shakes Yuuri out of the comfort of the moment, out of the scent of acrylics, drywall, and paper, back into the situation.  _ Victor Nikiforov _ just gave Yuuri his number! He’s certain that he’ll regret something he said sometime in the near future, but for now, he runs his fingers through his hair, mumbling a quick “thank you” before sprinting out.

_ How could Victor Nikiforov care about someone like me? _

-

Yuuri is on a video call with Mari, who’s sitting on the beach with her back to the ocean. The lapping of the waves against the shore, the moonlight highlighting the smooth ripples, make Yuuri incredibly homesick.

“Yuuri, when are you coming back to Hasetsu? It’s off-season, and you haven’t been home since starting school in New York. You haven’t even called in two weeks.” All of this is said in a fairly relaxed voice, but Yuuri can tell Mari is stressed. “Money’s running low here at the onsen. Mom’s been worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri lies, looking away from the camera sheepishly. He finds a small spider on his wall, choosing to make it his point of focus instead of the screen and Mari’s tired eyes. “I-I’m just practicing for the fall that’s all.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Mari says, shaking her head in disapproval. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just having a rough time, the theater’s been making some changes lately and they’ve been hard on all of us.”

“Still don’t believe you.”

“Well, it’ll be fine.”

-

It’s midnight when Victor Nikiforov’s phone buzzes. Against all better judgement, he lifts up the phone, squinting when the screen burns his eyes.

_ Hey _

_ It’s Yuuri _

_ So about that offer... _


End file.
